Simple Deductions
by darknightstalker
Summary: When a new tenant in the apartment 221A comes to stay, Sherlock is face with a mystery quite unlike any other. But when there's magic involved, things are never quite as simple as deductions
1. Part 1

Part One: A New Neighbor

We rarely saw the man who lived in two-two-one A for almost two months, the apartment just under two-two-one B. He was highly convinced that whomever it was who lived there was some secret agent sent in by His brother in order to keep track of their comings and goings. For all that I ignored and even fought Sherlock's' accusations, I had never met the man apart from a disembodied voice on the stairs as he came in and out of the building, or as a stunning introduction through gossip and idle conversation. If it hadn't been for the mysterious case of the Crossroads Code, we never may have met him. Or rather Harry, as he preferred to be called when he was off duty as a Special Forces operative.

It was raining, as usual, when there was a casual knock on the front door. Mrs. Hudson was out and Sherlock was refusing to get out of bed, also a regular occurrence. I had been regulated to door duty, whether it is for Mrs. Hudson's friends, or any Case that may present itself. I had been hoping for a case, personally, on that particular morning. It wasn't a case, but it did get Sherlock out of bed and into the living room, dressed, at least.

The young gentleman was well dressed, a casual suit with no tie or any other adornments that would raise the little red flags. Sherlock had been teaching me something at least.

"Er… hello? Can I help you?" I asked. The young man looked a bit confused at first, but then broke out into a delighted smile.

"John Watson?" He breathed, like he was taking a wild guess,

"And who are you?" He, almost impossibly, grinned wider.

"I am actually looking for the dear Mrs. Hudson about the apartment she was offering me yesterday. But I seem to have missed her." We examined each other a while longer, him sizing me up and I doing the same.

"Well, tell her I popped by then?" He grinned and then vanished. I lost him in the crowd before I could even register that he had gone. _Sherlock would like him,_ I remember thinking wryly. I regret even thinking about introducing them. I have enough of Sherlock to deal with on my own; I didn't need two of him.

I never saw him again, until that incident that we are yet to discuss. But heard plenty. He moved in underneath us. It was quick, surprisingly. One day we were taking cases, and next Mrs. Hudson was knocking on our door going on about how lovely it was that dearest Hadrian had moved in. I distinctly remember that conversation because Sherlock spat his coffee all over my chair, before refusing to speak with her for the remainder of the day.

"Hadrian? He's never mentioned a Hadrian before. What do we need a Hadrian for?" He asked himself, well he was talking to me but it is always better to let Sherlock pout it out on his own before giving him answers he already deducted, if only to make him feel better.

Sherlock complained frequently about him for the weeks to follow. Sometimes it was a confused question in the middle of a case, other times it was at two in the morning and a raging tirade of self-righteous fury.

"Calm down Sherlock. Its not like he's doing anything except moving in." I had tried to calm him on several occasions, but this particular time I was tired and not amused at being woken up at four a.m, just to be his sounding board for possible reasons why Hadrian had moved in.

"Maybe that's what he wants us to think. Why else would he be sent here?" There was a long pause, "He just can't stand not being in control! That's why Hadrian's here! Of course, how stupid of me. Almost thinking like you. Or even Anderson. Good lord, how could I have missed Him poking around in this."

"Hadrian has never even been upstairs Sherlock. He probably has better things to do. Like sleep." I added, just in case Sherlock was reading in between the lines tonight, or this morning.

"Not Hadrian, the other one." He was flippant, brushing off my weak comment like batting away a fly, and continuing to crouch on my bed, in his shoes I might add, like he was in his chair.

"Who is it we are talking about?" I was confused now. There was nobody else that we had discussed being connected to Hadrian.

" _Him!"_ Now he was just being annoying on purpose. With a roll of him eyes he flopped face first on top of me, his eyes wide like he had made some brilliant deduction and was waiting for my awe filled compliments to inflate his head further.

" _Mycroft!_ " He exclaimed, before adding; "Do keep up." In that sophisticated, calm tone of his. I was silent for a moment, watching him with bleary eyes and slightly unfocused sight. My mind was always a step or two behind him at the height of a crime scene, now, at five a.m, I was closer to a week behind. But I managed to get my words out without slurring them too badly.

"Have you… have you been _smoking,_ again?" He had to be; this wasn't some kind of thing he would come up with when clean of drugs. Unless he was losing his mind. He gave me _the look_ for that and stalked out of the room, dragging his feet the entire way back to his bedroom, where I could hear him flop down on the bed like a sulking child. I am happy to report that that was the last time he interrupted my sleep.

Unfortunately, while my nights were safe my mornings, afternoons and evenings weren't. They were filled with his constant stream of theories and forced deductions. For almost a month he was unbearable to everyone he met. Greg had asked if he could film us a couple of times. He didn't ask most of the time. Then, finally, he met Hadrian. I had missed their first face-to-face interaction that day because I had been called in to take a shift at the clinic, but when I got home, Sherlock was sitting up like a human being again and wearing his usual work suit.

"I met him today." Was all he said. How like him, all work no pleasantries. "You were right about Mycroft." The Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf and was out of the door.

Going to the lab

SH

Was all I got five minutes later.

It was another week before I met him again. He had come into the clinic to make an appointment with a new doctor, since he had moved to London only recently. I had seen him in my office. He looked well and was smiling brightly when I opened the door to greet my new patient.

"Doctor Watson. Nice to see you again." He greeted me, "How are you? How's Sherlock?" I smiled gently in return and informed him of how quiet Sherlock had become after their meeting and how grateful I was for the break.

"That's good to hear." We proceeded with the check-up and I got my first glimpse of his many scars. He didn't speak of them or even explain how he got them, so I, in turn, ignored the few peeks I got of them. He blushed a little when I mention them in passing observation, but didn't comment.

I asked Sherlock about them later, after returning to the flat. He was still sitting exactly as I had left him, the only difference being the tea set that had been obviously used within the past couple of hours. My only reasoning for that being that the tea pot was still steaming.

"He's a victim of abuse. An orphan. The people he was sent to live with were both simultaneously neglectful and surprisingly attentive to him. He hasn't eaten properly, as he is severely underweight, obvious by his collarbone and sort stature. The scars on his wrists suggest that he is either very clumsy with a knife or has thought of ending his life multiple times, the second being far more likely. Though none of the scars are less than two years old, he's not tried recently. The ones on the back of his neck suggest he has been whipped at some point, and more than once. The way he watches every exit in a room suggests that he has either been in military service or been forced to examine his options for escape when things turn sour. It's highly possible that both are true. The one on his forehead gives the impression that someone decided his face was too boring and wanted to give him a permanent tattoo and reminder. The way it is still enflamed suggests that it has healed improperly and has been opened recently. Was that close?"

I have never gotten used to Sherlock's rapid-fire deductions. The way you can ask a simple question and then suddenly have a monologue of observations that you neither needed to know, like how he deduced that Sally Donovan was frequently having casual sex with many of the officers she worked with, or even thought possible, his deductions on Harry Potter from one ten minute meeting.

"Where did you get all that?" I was surprised to learn that this had not in fact been one ten minute meeting,

"Yesterday afternoon, while you were on a date." But three, all taking place when I was either working or away from the flat.

"Don't worry John. I'm the one who goes down to observe him. He hasn't stepped foot in our flat since asking for a tea bag a week ago. Which was one I observed that he moves almost silently. A side effect of abuse and military training. I say almost because he tripped over my leg."

"You mean you tripped him?"

"No. One of the legs I borrowed from the morgue had fallen off the table. He tripped over it. Rather silly of him don't you think?"

"Yes, ridiculous that he might trip over a disembodied leg while carefully observing the floor as he goes to get a bag of tea." I get _the look_ again, this time he is telling me that 'I am being ridiculous and that of course it wasn't a bag of tea he was going to get'. I don't ask as a matter of personal security.

We continue on as always, business as usual. Sherlock takes on a case or two a week before burying himself into his bed and refusing to do anything towards interacting with people. Its almost as if he can only tolerate a human interaction for so long before he breaks down and is forced to retreat behind his doors to ignore the real world. I am content during these days, because then I work and try to make some money for our rent. Mrs. Hudson seems to be the only thing that keeps us afloat when Sherlock feels that he is being too restless and needs a murder to stimulate him. Business as usual.

TBC


	2. Part 2

Part Two

Business as Usual were not the words a normal man would use to describe looking down at the dead body of a man that had been shot and killed – apparently by sniper – when there was no evidence to support it. Sherlock and I had been called out on a case. A man had been killed in the middle of nowhere, no buildings no people. No one in a fifteen-mile radius. Anderson had said that heart failure was the cause. I had said that he was shot. Sherlock noticed the blood in his ears. The bullet had gone in one ear and out the other. This was similar to three deaths we had encountered prior to Buckingham Palace. Three murders. We had been using the apartment as Home Base when we encountered Harry again.

He was fighting quietly with a redhead outside the door to his apartment. She was tightly holding the wrist of a young boy with wild blue hair. Her voice growing louder and louder as she grew more and more heated.

"Illegitimate." Sherlock whispered to me when we passed them.

"Shut up."

"I can't take this anymore Harry! He is not our child!" The woman was yelling, audible for anyone to hear.

"He's family Gin." The soft, disappointed pleading that came from Harry pulled at my heartstrings. This was a man who had known loss, had likely lost his own family in the recent attacks. I hadn't known Sherlock at the time, having been in Afghanistan, but the letters I received from Harry – my sister, mind – had been enough to tell me I wasn't really missing anything.

"He's NOT! He's a relic of your dead parents family, not ours. You said we would be together after! You said-"

"I said we would work things out! I never said I would marry you right after. I waited for you, and you didn't wait for me. I've moved on Gin. You should too." The brief rising of Harry's voice was enough to stop Sherlock in his tracks. For some reason he was invested in this argument.

"The take this… this FREAK!" SLAP. The sound of the woman's hand meeting the child's face froze the street. The man from down the road stared openly and the two ladies walking their dogs gasped and put hands to their mouths. Sherlock had turned to face the arguing couple, eyes analyzing everything. A student pulled out his mobile and started to video it.

"You knew what that word means to him, don't you?" Sherlock opened his mouth and I groaned inside. He would either make the situation worse, or he would make a lasting impression on someone. In a bad way.

"Excuse me?" The woman ground out. I moved to get closer to my friend. Hopefully to defuse the situation before something happened.

"You know what that word, 'Freak' means to him, but you said it anyway. Why? Was it to remind him of his abusive past and how you 'saved him' from it? Or was it to cover up the guilt you feel about cheating on him? Redirect him in a way? Or, finally, did you call the innocent child you are painfully grabbing on to that vile word because it made you feel like you had any control over this situation? Pick one. Or better yet, I'll pick one and you can shut. Up." Sherlock's words were crisp and biting, his teeth almost bared as he stood wrapped in his long coat and scarf on the corner of Baker Street.

"You said it because you wanted to hurt him. Your ex-fiancé who dumped you shortly after the attacks on London, because he found you in bed with another man. But not any man – going by his reaction to your infidelity – but someone he used to call a friend. Probably still does. But now you want him back. Because young Mr. Potter here isn't someone who anyone would easily let slide by. He's worth something to you.

"Your name has been dragged through the mud and for some reason… he's the only one who can help your case. Is it because he is one of the few English Lords with any wealth left? Or is it because he's a friend of the family and marrying him will endear you to them? But lets not dwell on theories shall we?" Suddenly Sherlock began to smile. Not a pleasant smile, but one with teeth, like a sharks menacing smile of death. The girl was spluttering and turning an embarrassed shade of red.

"You are hurting a child that means a great deal to the man you are trying to move in on. You hate the boy. You want him gone. Because you can't have any competition for the child you are carrying. The child you want Harry to adopt and name his legal heir but won't because _he_ is in the way. So you want Mr. Potter, an orphan, who lost his parents and any potential guardian very young, to give up his orphaned nephew who also lost his parents and potential guardian very young. But lets think on how improbable that scenario is going to work out, shall we?" The street as silent save the redhead's splutters and embarrassed half formed excuses.

My head was spinning. I knew Sherlock had a vicious tongue, but I never thought he would turn it into such a devastating weapon against a woman he didn't know in defense of a man he barely knew.

"I think you should go Ginny. " Harry murmured, gently taking the small boys arm from the enraged redhead.

"Yes, I really think you should." Sherlock almost hissed. And that was the end of that, the woman stormed down the road leaving Harry to the small child.

"I think maybe we should get inside." I suggested, trying to get the young man and his child out of the eyes of the public.

* * *

I had never seen anyone with hair quite like the little boy's, but Harry had seemed genuinely accepting of it. Vibrant blue hair is not something someone expects to see on a five year old.

"His mother wore it like that." Was all he would say on the subject. "His names Teddy by the way."

I had never seen anyone quite like Harry before. The way he handled the quite boy was nothing shot of masterful. He held him tightly and silently fussed over him, all the while keeping him perfectly still so that I could examine him.

Sherlock was sitting in – _on_ would be the more appropriate term, as he was practically crouched on the cushions of – his chair. His fingers classically steepled in front of his chin, watching.

"He's fine. Just a little bruising, but that'll be gone in a few days." I gave Harry a slight smile with the diagnosis. The child hadn't been abused, thank goodness.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes. I think I will take Teddy home now. We're both in need of a little rest." Harry gave a short bow of his head and headed out of the flat, Teddy holding on tightly to his hand.

I watched them go, but was ever aware of Sherlock watching me from behind. Sherlock had always acted as he pleased, but today I had seen something in him that I hadn't ever seen before. When he had verbally attacked the woman on the street he had been genuinely furious, the word Freak only making the fury bubble over.

With my brain finally catching up to me I remembered some of the things Sherlock had spouted in his fit of anger.

"Last of the English Lords?"

"It was obvious." Was the petulant response.

"How?" Sherlock didn't even answer, fading into one of his moods that would leave me doing all the talking.

"Well if your not going to tell me I have half a mind to tell Mycroft that your acting odd, almost like you've taken a hit." It was a threat, I'll admit, but it was the only one that could stir Sherlock out of his moods.

"He already knows. He's had the flat under surveillance since He moved in." Of course. "He'll probably be here in an hour or two. The video was uploaded to YouTube about two minutes before we entered Baker Street. Enough time for Mycroft to have decided to pay us a visit. Do we have any biscuits? We should probably hide them before he gets here." And just like that Sherlock retreated into his mind palace, hiding from the rest of the world. Mycroft would bring him out of it when he arrived as he always did.

Which happened to be an hour and thirty minutes after Harry and Teddy had left the flat. Mycroft Holmes – the equally annoying and dramatic – brother of Sherlock breezed into our flat with an unopened umbrella and a three-piece suit.

"Have you gained weight?" Was Sherlock's immediate question, barely even looking at his brother before moving into the dining room to pour himself a glass of water.

"No actually. I'm dieting."

"Not working." Sherlock is just as petulant and frustrating with his brother as he is with every other person to have ever had the misfortune of attracting the man's attention. The only difference being that Mycroft – the British Government - can be just as petty and ill mannered right back at him.

"Sherlock Holmes you will stop acting like a child this instant."

"Shan't."

"So help me I _will_ call Mummy and then where will you be?" The threat of "Mummy" is the only one that can ever bring Sherlock fully out of a mood I have discovered. And only Mycroft can issue such a threat so severely that even I have felt a chill of fear at "mummy" being involved.

"What do you want Mycroft?"

"Haven't you already _deduced that_ brother mine?" If you haven't read any of my adventures where Mycroft Holmes is involved, then the relationship the two brothers have may seem very hostile. Which it is – make no mistake of that. However Mycroft is the older brother, and when an older brother issues a challenge, it must be answered.

"You're here about Harry – Hadrian – Potter. Obvious."

"Is it really?"

"Yes. It's been an hour and fifty minutes since the video of a certain redheaded harlot and our resident mystery man fighting over a five year old has been on the Internet. You wouldn't come here over anyone, no. He's important to you. A secret perhaps? A war hero by the way people have treated him.

"But why would he be important to the British Government? You don't care about regular war heroes so why him? He's done something special. Something nobody else, but a select few, know about. He's not military, so special forces maybe. He's got no real records past the age of eleven, and the one I've seen are fake. But they're good fakes, nobody would notice unless they have an eye for it.

"So, Harry Potter, an orphaned neglected child with no history past the age of eleven or before the age of sixteen, military training but no military background, a war hero to a select few - _Oh!_ Now that's just cheating Mycroft."

"Where Harry Potter is concerned nothing is ever quite as normal as we would like it to be." Mycroft and Sherlock were in on something together, and either they were purposefully keeping me out o the loop, or they were both completely oblivious to my presence. My money being on the latter more because of who they are and how they think.

"I'm sorry, but who are we talking about?" The Holmes brothers both gave me the _look_. A common occurrence from Sherlock but quite unnerving from the both of them.

"Mister Hadrian "Harry" Potter. Special Operative to her majesty and a war hero, officially." Mycroft answered.

"And off the record?"

"Harry Potter is the man who killed the terrorist leader who was leading the attacks earlier last year. And also, a wizard." I can say with complete confidence that had Mrs. Hudson not arrived home at the exact moment I lost consciousness I would probably still be lying on the floor.

 **TBC**

 **A/N: So, yeah. Here you go. Sorry about the long wait, but hey it's not like the Sherlock fandom is unused to waiting for more Sherlock. The truth is, I had a major case of writers block and I had no idea on where to go with this,** **I don't even know if this will be Johnlock or Mary and John yet, but I think I will wait to see how it unfolds.**

 **Also, I have yet to see any of season 4 so if you are commenting/reviewing I would appreciate no spoilers at all, I'm sure we can respect that.**

 **DNStalker**


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